


Articulation

by fleete



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Canon Compliant, First Time, M/M, Mild humiliation kink, Undernegotiated Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleete/pseuds/fleete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles "accidentally" chains himself to a wall, and Derek has to use his words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Articulation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by lolafeist: “Stiles secretly wonders what it feels like to be chained up the way the wolves are on the full moon…he accidentally fastens himself to something…Derek discovers him." Thanks for the prompt, Lola!
> 
> Thanks to concinnity and lolafeist for beta-ing! 
> 
> The underage warning is for the equivalent of a wet dream that happened when Derek was twelve years old and restrained for werewolf-y reasons. There is **no child abuse** or any sexual touching of children in this story. Stiles is of age.

The first time Derek ever had an orgasm, he’d been twelve years old and chained to the wall. 

There had been moonlight lining the boarded-up window and shackles heavy and cutting at his wrists. The twisting, not-quite-painful sensation of the shift was belly-deep in a way that it had never been before. His dad, who had stayed with him through the whole thing—the very first full moon that Derek had spent in chains—went to fetch more water, and Derek was alone in that empty room, the air whistling around the window boards and against his face. Then without any warning, all that pain-tension in his abdomen just _dropped_ , fell through his groin, and his thighs, and ass, and he shook, jerked forward, and wet the inside of his jeans. It was strange, though, thick and sticky, and he sagged, reveling in the visceral relief of being emptied out, like after you vomit when you’re sick.

His dad hadn’t said anything when he returned, although he could surely smell it; he just drew a wet rag across Derek’s sweaty forehead and checked the shackles and said, "You’re doing fine, kiddo." A week later, though, in the midst of a disastrously embarrassing conversation about sex and body hair and puberty, Dad had explained to him that it happens sometimes to wolves his age during the moon, and that he shouldn’t be embarrassed, and that he would grow out of it. And Derek had grown out of it—it hadn’t happened ever again. But once he figured out how to use his hands on himself, he would think about it sometimes—the shock of the blood rush, the iron at his wrists as he jerked forward, how the air had touched him at his mouth and throat and hips, and the wonderful feeling of reaching with his body, arching out against the air. The combination of shame and sheer animal release. It was and is one of his most potent fantasies. Not even those long, torturous hours with Kate had dimmed it. If anything, that experience gave his fantasy new sharp edges.

It’s the first thing he thinks of when he happens upon Stiles tugging haplessly at a shackle on his wrist in the burnt-out basement of the Hale house. 

Okay, it’s the second thing. The first thing he thinks is _shit_ , because he hasn’t seen Stiles in three days, and the last time he had, Stiles had kissed him on the mouth. But the second thing is orgasms.

Stiles is standing over the trunk containing all the chains, one cuff attached to an exposed pipe jutting out over the top of the trunk, the other on his right wrist. At the moment, Stiles is trying to remove the thing, absurdly, by pulling at it, gathering his fingers into a point to make his hand smaller. But the cuff catches at the swell of the base of his palm, turning it pink-pink-red as he presses it harder and harder, his face screwing up with the effort.

Derek closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Stiles isn’t in any danger. He can’t smell anyone else’s scent in the room, so nobody has done this to him. He did it to himself. Which doesn’t make Derek’s thoughts about sex and chains go away _at all_. Some part of him wonders why Stiles should inspire such a private association when others haven’t, but another part of him—the part that has had him avoiding Stiles for the last three days—knows exactly why. Derek opens his eyes.

Stiles is muttering silently to himself, his mouth taking shape around what look to be frustrated curses. He’s smart, though, careful not to voice any of them, because he’s been part of the pack long enough to appreciate the sensitivity of wolf hearing. He does look up, once, at the door, nerves on his face, and Derek nearly jumps backward before he realizes that Stiles can’t see him where he’s standing in the shadows.

Stiles seems to despair of the cuff on his wrist and starts messing with the cuff on the pipe. His wrist bones are blush pink at the edges of it, because even though it’s tightened sufficiently not to slip off, it’s heavy, too heavy. They were created especially for Derek’s family: shackles built like handcuffs in that they can be locked on quickly, without a key, but much heavier than normal police cuffs. But they’re not made to be comfortable. They’re made to weigh you down, and they’re made to hurt if you pull at them too much. Derek feels a flash of more substantial irritation, because Stiles could actually injure himself wearing those, and putting them on by himself is so unbelievably stupid.

No. Putting them on at all is stupid. Having someone help wouldn’t make it…he’s picturing it, now, sliding the shackles down Stiles’ arms, and—. Stop, stop, stop.

Derek is going to tell him off, and take the shackles off of him, and yell at him in righteous fury for being stupid, and then he will stop feeling awkward around Stiles. The three-day silence will be broken. Everything will be back to normal.

Derek doesn’t do any of those things.

Stiles is sitting down on the trunk now, just yanking at the pipe, making short, aborted attempts at breaking it quietly. One of Stiles’ legs is bouncing, his toes on the floor and his heel pumping up and down in a familiar dance, and his eyes dart around the room every so often, vigilant. 

Derek is intensely aware that they’re the only two people in the house. And for miles.

Stiles chooses that moment to give up, slumping back against the wall and snorting. He tilts his head back and frowns at the ceiling in resignation, before drawing in a deep, annoyed breath and yelling Derek’s name. 

Derek gives it a full minute—enough for Stiles to call him twice more and for Derek to take eight very deep breaths—before he steps into the room. 

“Yeah?”

Stiles face has been re-arranged into a nonchalant expression. “Hey. I, um…I might have got myself stuck in a thing here. I was just cleaning them—do you know how much dried blood is on these things, seriously—and, _bang_ ,” he wiggles his fingers in a jazz hands motion. “They kinda jump right up on you, don’t they.”

“No. They really don’t,” Derek says.

Stiles makes a face and shrugs, like _what can you do_. “Anyway, so I can’t find the key. You’d think you keep it in the same place as the rest of your medieval torture devices, but I looked everywhere, and—” Derek tunes him out when he realizes that Stiles has stopped moving: his shoulders are stiff, his feet fixed in place, and his gaze steady like a predator’s. The last time Derek had seen him so terrifyingly still, they had all been locked in a cage by witches who were not, it turned out, dangerous, but only extremely insistent that their rituals required nudity. It had been a very long, cold, and humiliating night. Right now, the only part of Stiles moving is his chest, expanding with each short breath. 

Stiles is embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Or pissed? It really annoys Derek that he can’t tell.

Derek suppresses a grimace, and motions for Stiles to stand up so that he can dig in the trunk for the key.

“I already looked in there,” Stiles says, but moves aside anyway—as far as he can while attached to the wall. His jaw and shoulders are tight all over.

It’s…disturbing. Derek can admit to himself that he’d actually enjoyed intimidating Stiles when they had first met, because Stiles had always responded to him in deeply _satisfying_ ways. Now, though—that satisfaction has warped into something strange. Or maybe it was always strange, and Derek is just now noticing it. Because the smug gratification he feels when Stiles startles because he hadn’t noticed Derek enter a room is really not so different from what he feels when Stiles actually laughs at his jokes. Or when Stiles kisses him because Derek’s just saved all their lives and grown back half his skin. The point is, Stiles _reacts_ to him. And Derek may be self-aware enough to know that he’s pulling Stiles’ metaphorical pigtails, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to _stop_ , okay?

The key is not in its usual place in the lower right hand corner of the box. Derek blows out a frustrated breath and sets himself to searching underneath all the loose chains. 

“Why would you even lock yourself up in the first place?” he grits out, because he does want to know.

“I didn’t _lock myself up_. It was an accident. And hey, give a guy some credit. I was _trying_ to have greater empathy for my fellow man. Fellow werewolf. Whatever. I mean, you guys have to get locked up, and that sucks, and I’ve always wondered about how much…it sucks.”

“We don’t have to get locked up,” Derek responds, still rummaging for the key. It’s starting to alarm him that he can’t find it. “The betas are settled down now, and I haven’t had to use these restraints since I was a teenager.”

“So? Doesn’t mean I can’t be curious.” And Derek looks up again to see Stiles’ eyes fixed on him. “I just wondered what it was like,” he says, his voice suddenly smaller.

Derek freezes and takes him in, from his too-still feet to his fisted hands to his clenched jaw, and Derek doesn’t even mean to let his eyes rest on Stiles’ crotch, but there you go. He can’t tell for sure what’s happening right now. Derek is contemplating maybe eight different possibilities, all of which are terrifying, because they include 1) Stiles is experiencing some kind of panic or bad reaction to being chained up, 2) Stiles is extremely pissed at him for some reason, and 3) Stiles is aroused. He supposes they could all be true, but right now he needs to know whether he should forget the key and just try to bend the damn thing off Stiles’ wrist. His hands go to the cuff, pulling and testing the joints, but then he turns to the other end of the chain just as quickly, because he realizes he can _definitely_ break the pipe, and he’s already got both hands on it when—

“Derek,” says Stiles sharply, and his gaze snaps to him, and suddenly they’re back in Derek’s car, three nights ago, ripe with adrenaline, and pressing long, slow, bloody kisses into each others’ mouths. 

“I’m okay,” Stiles says after a long moment. “I’m good. I’m not freaking out or anything; I’m just a little keyed up.”

Entirely without his permission, Derek’s eyes drop to Stiles’ crotch, which makes Stiles shift and huff a self-deprecating laugh, and say, “I guess you can tell.”

He hadn’t actually been sure. Stiles’ jeans aren’t particularly tight, but now—maybe it’s just that Stiles has admitted as much that they look a little fuller than they did before. Belatedly, Derek remembers to look away. Stiles is looking at a point high over Derek’s shoulder, which gives Derek a clear view of his Adam’s apple when he swallows, and this all-over rigidity in his body makes Derek breathe faster. He wonders what that says about him.

When Derek looks at the ground to avoid looking at Stiles, he sees the key wedged between two floor boards. He crouches down to pull it out.

“Oh. Well that’s. Stupid,” Stiles says when Derek holds it up.

He has to lean past Stiles where he’s standing to unlock the cuff on the pipe, and Stiles has to go and bite his lips at the edge of Derek’s peripheral vision, so it takes two tries to get the key in the lock. 

And then he’s standing there, one end of the chain in his hands, and the other attached to Stiles. There’s probably a metaphor to be had in that, but fuck if Derek can figure out what it is.

Derek doesn’t realize that he hadn’t moved for a while, that he had been staring at the chain in his hands, until Stiles steps right up into his personal space.

“So,” he says. 

The shuffling feet are back, but his shoulders are squared like he’s about to go into battle.

“I’m taking the fact that you’re not unlocking me to mean that you’re into this,” he says, his voice not nearly as confident as his words. “If you’re not, you need to say something.”

This is what Derek likes about Stiles: even when he’s terrified, being chased by witches, or horny-as-fuck, he will say the shit that needs saying. 

Thankfully, Derek’s response doesn’t require words, so he just reaches for Stiles’ right wrist, and Stiles gives it to him, probably still wondering whether he is going to unlock him and end this. Derek just shifts the shackle forward and back so that he can rub the skin at the edges of it, and hopes that that’s answer enough. Up close, Stiles has multiple little blue veins that converge at the base of his palm, and Derek keeps his eyes fixed on them while Stiles leans up closer and closer, until he’s breathing directly on Derek’s lips, and says,

“Will you—” But he doesn’t finish, just brushes his lips against Derek’s once. And again. And then again. Until Derek presses back, just touching. Stiles’ heart is still rabbiting, and Derek wonders if he’s still embarrassed, if he’s nervous, if he wants to _talk_ about all the kissing three days ago. If it were someone else, he’d probably kiss them harder right now, put his tongue in their mouth just to shut them up, but it’s Stiles. Stiles will know what to say. And Stiles won’t make fun of Derek if he just wants to stand here with their lips together, their hands and the chain between them.

“Will you put the other one on me?” Stiles asks in a low voice that Derek _likes_ , likes a lot.

“Yeah,” he says, and kisses Stiles again, more leisurely, dry pressure. Stiles breathes out through his nose, and it’s warm on Derek’s cheek.

Derek pulls back on an exhale. Stiles looks…looks good, with his pupils blown black and his mouth open. He has no idea what’s going to happen after the other shackle goes on, but he does know that Stiles will tell him. It’s a comforting thought.

“Sit down on the trunk again?” Derek says. Despite his best efforts, it comes out like a question.

Stiles goes, lifting his arm up and behind his head, and Derek goes with him, feeding the chain back around the pipe, and then winding it twice more, until most of the slack is gone, and then brings the free end down. He’s standing in front of Stiles, leaning over him, Stiles’ face right at Derek’s abdomen. There’s a spot on his belly that grows warmer every time Stiles breathes out, even through his t-shirt, and Derek takes his sweet time before he moves away from it.

The metallic scrape of the second shackle locking into place rings loud in the mostly empty room.

Derek takes a step back and Stiles looks up at the same time. They stare at each other, and Stiles leans forward to test the slack. It makes his shoulders pull back and his chest open. The skin at his upper arms looks soft and new.

“Hi,” Stiles says, ridiculously. He’s got a red flush going up his neck and creeping over his jaw.

“Hi.” Derek is waiting. He’s waiting because he doesn’t actually know what the fuck he’s doing, and getting Stiles to _tell him_ what to do is so, so much easier than making a guess and screwing it up. 

Stiles interprets the delay as something more decisive: "Right. You’re gonna make me ask for it, aren’t you?”

Derek adopts what he hopes is a sufficiently cocky expression, and lifts his eyebrows in challenge. Derek likes how Stiles is holding his body right now: comfortable enough to squirm, but turned on enough to _tighten_ in places. He doesn’t answer.

“You have been watching too much porn. I am not going to _beg_ for it, okay?”

Derek really admires the way that Stiles can make the cuffs clang against each other, but he should probably prevent Stiles from pulling on them too much. But no matter: hopefully he can get Stiles to go all still again. 

“You’re a dick, you know that? An immature, emotionally stunted dick.”

“Yeah,” Derek finally says, smiling, and hopes that it comes off as a tease instead of the truth. He apologizes by kneeling between Stiles’ legs.

“ _Oh_ ,” says Stiles, who apparently hadn’t thought this far ahead. Or maybe he’d thought it would go the other way. Or maybe he’d just wanted kissing. Derek doesn’t know; he just puts his hands on Stiles’ inner thighs and rubs circles with his thumbs. Stiles narrows his eyes when he realizes that Derek really isn’t going to move any further.

“Oh _fuck you_. Fine. I know we already did the kissing thing, and we haven’t really talked about the thing in the car on Tuesday, but do you think we could maybe skip to the sex thing, because my dad always says, ‘In for a penny, in for a—,’” and then Derek has his pants undone, because that sounds like a decision, “BLOWJOB. In for a penny, in for a blowjob. Is what they say. Not what my dad says, because why would I talk about him right now? Who does that—”

_You do_ , Derek thinks fondly, and _thank you_ , because he hadn’t actually formed a plan beyond getting Stiles’ dick out. But he can do a blowjob. Probably.

Before he can think about it too much, Derek puts his head down and licks. The pink head of Stiles’ cock comes away shiny from it, and Derek flattens his tongue, licks more firmly, wetting the whole length of him in methodical sections. He’s never actually done this before, but he knows how he likes to receive it. When Stiles is wet all over, Derek wraps a fist around the base of him and goes to take him in, but Stiles sighs and jerks up.

“Don’t move yet. I don’t want to nick you.”

“Are you _serious_ , right now?” Stiles says, and then, incongruously, “I trust you.”

Derek folds his lips back carefully over his teeth before taking him down, holding just past the head and licking again.

Having Stiles’ cock in his mouth is weird, but in a good way. It is a bit like the feeling of a brand new toothbrush, or a new food you hadn’t expected to like: unfamiliar but better for it. The skin here is soft, vulnerable, and thin, and it makes the part of Derek’s brain that belongs to a carnivore _twitch_. His mouth waters. He spends a minute or two getting the lay of the land of just the first inch or two, rolling his tongue around the tip, stretching his lips out and in, canting his head so that it bumps the roof of his mouth and smooths the inside of each cheek. Derek is counting on Stiles’ relative inexperience here; with any luck, Stiles will assume he’s getting some kind of prolonged, artisanal foreplay known only to werewolves instead of Derek’s first fumbling foray into dick.

When he glances up, Stiles is panting through a smile, his lips parted just enough that his breath makes a noise on every exhale. Derek knuckles one hand up under Stiles’ shirt and feels his abdominal muscles working every so often to keep him upright.

Derek takes a deep breath. He’s pretty certain that he can manage this without any fang-related mishaps now. He should probably put the whole thing in his mouth. That’s what always felt the best on him. He’ll just—

He gags, a little, when Stiles’ cock hits the back his throat, but Stiles groans, so Derek does it again, sucking hard and trying to keep his tongue in motion. 

“That’s good. Just like that,” Stiles says reassuringly, which makes Derek snort in indignation. One of Stiles’ heels is bouncing happily next to Derek’s knee, and Derek decides that Stiles is entirely too _loose_. He sets himself to the sucking motion he had started up when Stiles said it was good, and tries it harder, softer, slower, faster, until Stiles’ pants get loud, and the muscles in his thighs clench on either side of Derek’s head.

He pauses to gloat, which involves a slurping noise and a dribble down his chin, and says, “Are you okay?”

“Don’t stop don’t stop.” The overwhelmed current in Stiles’ voice is apparently enough to throw the switch on Derek’s playful mood, because he goes back to it, adding his hand in a short pump at the base of Stiles’ cock.

Derek wants to say things, then. Wants to ask Stiles if he likes the restraints, just to hear him say he does. Wants to ask him why he likes them, just to hear him describe it. (He wants to ask him why he likes _Derek_ , but that’s just another thing he’s not going to ask him.)

He likes the way that Stiles’ hips shift forward, searching for the back of his throat, and the way that his body strains with it, held back by his shackled hands over his head.

The next time Derek brings his head back, he doesn’t go down as far, making Stiles lean forward for that precious extra inch of tongue and lips. He does it again after a few long sucks, and Stiles follows him again, his shoulders pulled back and open, muscles in his arms bunching as he thrusts, his hips coming up even more, and when Derek moves even further back, Stiles actually lets out whine when he has to arch his entire body out for Derek’s mouth.

“Derek, what. Can you. I’m— please, oh god.”

Derek gives him back a bare half inch before demanding, “Fuck my mouth.” And Stiles shudders, and does try, arching forward for a few thrusts and tiring. Derek’s hard and uncomfortable in his jeans, needs to readjust himself badly, but it’s good, too, the edge of it keeping him grounded while Stiles thrusts inelegantly forward.

“I can’t, you’re too far, _oh_ , will you just—” And he gives it a few more, beautiful full-body arches up into the air, that are _perfect_ , god, Derek can imagine exactly how it must feel to thrust his whole body out and up, so he rewards them both by picking Stiles’ ass up in his hands, helps him fuck Derek’s mouth.

The salty, bitter fluid on Derek’s tongue is surprising, and bad-tasting, but somehow still gratifying. And the long, low whine in his ears is spectacular.

Derek turns his head to spit—the floors can’t get that much dirtier, honestly—and then turns back to see that Stiles has tipped his head back between his arms to pant at the ceiling. He nuzzles at Stiles’ softening cock, which makes him jerk and look down.

“ _Ah_. Sensitive.” 

Which should probably make him stop, but it’s thrilling the way Stiles’s thighs clench and relax a few times, his knees drawing little circles in the air next to Derek’s shoulders. Most days, the basement feels listlessly cold, like somebody’s broken freezer, but right now Derek is buzzing with warmth, from his constricted cock to his forehead against Stiles’ belly.

He tucks his nose into the crease where Stiles’ thigh meets his groin, and reaches down to unzip himself. Readjusting his cock feels so good that he moans aloud. For a long, comfortable moment, he just settles into the warmth of his palm.

“Stand up,” Stiles says lazily. “I’ll suck you off.”

But Derek doesn’t want to. He wants to stay here on his knees with his face in Stiles’ lap. He moves his hand awkwardly, his dick still halfway in his jeans, and gives himself long, dry pulls that are too rough but also _great_. His lips purse against Stiles’ thigh in an almost-kiss, but he keeps his mouth closed. No need to tempt fate.

“You’re really just gonna stay there and jerk off when I’m offering you head?” Stiles sounds amused.

Something about Stiles’ amusement drags a heat up into the back of Derek’s neck and thighs, and Derek pulls harder. His balls are caught in his jeans: a good-bad squeeze that flashes bright when he tugs them out with his other hand.

“Is that really how you do that? At least lick your hand or something. You’re making my dick hurt just watching you.”

Derek rocks back on his heels and watches Stiles eyes’ flicker between Derek’s face and his moving hand.

“Sorry,” he says, unapologetically. “Just trying to be helpful—”

Stiles stares at the hand in front of his face.

“You said I should lick my hand?” Derek reminds him.

Stiles laughs, but obliges, sticking out his tongue to bathe Derek’s hand in warm, wet licks. He even stretches his neck to catch his teeth on the fleshy base of Derek’s thumb and spit onto it, gifting him with lubrication that drips down Derek’s wrist.

When Derek fucks into his fist again, his fingers slick and warm, and Stiles’ spit mixes with Derek’s precome, and now everything everywhere smells like Stiles. There’s something about doing this at Stiles’ feet, something about Stiles watching him, mocking him. Derek puts his face down into Stiles’ thigh again, and listens to Stiles urge him on— _Yeah, yeah, come on, come, come_ —his words warm bursts of air on the back of Derek’s neck. 

He comes with Stiles’ femoral artery ticking against his lips.

*

“Derek. My arms are starting to fall asleep.”

Derek raises his head. “Oh.”

The undoing part is much less sexy than the doing part. Derek has to tuck himself back into his pants and relocate the key, which ended up on the floor again. The shackles click open without a fuss, and Derek packs them back in the trunk while Stiles re-arranges himself.

When he looks up, Stiles is leaning against the opposite wall and rubbing his arms. His wrists are red and scuffed. They’ll probably bruise. Derek bites his cheek ruefully.

“We shouldn’t do that again, “ he says.

Stiles gives his left forearm a particularly hard rub. “No?” he asks without looking up.

“They’re not made for humans,” Derek explains. But he knows what he’s being asked. Shit. “I mean…”

Stiles looks up at him, then, this weary, long-suffering look on his face. He’d look much the same when Derek had pulled away in the car the other night, before turning the key in the engine and driving Stiles home in complete silence.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Derek says honestly.

“It’s not that hard, man. Do you want to do this again or not?”

“I meant that the shackles aren’t safe to be playing with.”

“I know what you meant,” Sties says with some bite. He’s back to his normal state of movement: his back shifting against the wall every few seconds, his tongue making shapes on the inside of his cheek.

“You can’t do this. You can’t wait for me to start everything,” Stiles says, shaking his head.

And then, and then, he _leaves_ , just turns and walks out like he’s a fucking heroine in a romantic comedy who Derek is going to chase after.

Which Derek _does_ , because—because he does. Because there are very few people left in the world who actually want to _talk_ to Derek, and this is the only one who wants Derek to talk _back_ for reasons unrelated to the bond between alpha and beta. And because the sex had been something straight out of his deepest, darkest fantasies. And because…Stiles. But that doesn’t mean that—

Derek catches him on the front steps and forgets what he was thinking about. The afternoon light is shockingly bright, after the shadows of the basement, and Stiles is lined in it, all pale skin and dark hair and wrists still red from what they’d done.

“Let’s do it again,” Derek announces, like none of the last five minutes had happened.

Stiles turns back to him with a skeptical eyebrow raised. “Really.” 

“Really,” Derek says, shrugging.

Stiles regards him with the superior air of a teacher about to say, _Good of you to join us, Mr. Hale. Here’s a pop quiz._

“’Kay,” Stiles says smoothly. “I’m hungry. You wanna get some pizza?” He waves a hand at the Jeep.

“Sure.” Derek’s already walking to the passenger’s side, but he doesn’t miss Stiles’ grin. They’re going on a date, he realizes with a jolt. A _date_. 

Derek is…not displeased.

Stiles waits until they’re out on the road, the trees flying by in swaths of brown and red and orange, before he says, "So. You wanna do the thing with the chains again?”

“I _just_ said—”

“You said they’re not safe for humans.” His entire body reads _smug_ , and Derek feels a little weird about how turned on he is by Stiles’ confident, long-fingered grip on the steering wheel. “What about on you?”

“Huh,” he says, pretending to consider it. Pretending that it’s not every dream he’s had since he was _twelve_.

But Stiles is onto him now. He snatches Derek’s arm, a fist tight around one of his wrists like a shackle.

“Come _on_ ,” he says, the laughter in his voice not quite covering up the fact that it’s a demand. “Say it.” 

There are a thousand different ways to articulate the desire curling hot around that idea, but the first and last ones are _I want to do anything you want_. Derek lets another quarter-mile go by.

“Sure,” he says. “Sounds good.”

Stiles bursts into uninhibited, gasping laughs on the driver’s side, and it sounds so very, _very_ good.

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfills my bondage (wrist/ankle) kink_bingo square.
> 
> If there is anyone out there who wants to write a Derek bondage sequel, OMG YOU SHOULD DO THAT. And link me. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Public Service Announcement: Just to be clear, everybody, the bondage in this fic is undernegotiated and mildly unsafe (as they figure out at the end). Don't try at home unless/until you're aware of all the risks!


End file.
